


Day One

by Calico



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canadian Shack, Escapism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From time to time, Sherlock's powers of deduction leave something to be desired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sheldrake!

John folded his arms. "Do you even know why we're here?"

Sherlock paused for a microsecond, just long enough for John to realise the answer to his question was _Not a fucking clue_.

"A birthday," Sherlock tried. He was perched on top of an armchair, phone in outstretched hand, searching for phone reception. John didn't reckon his chances, in this log cabin halfway up a mountain, were very good.

John lifted his chin. "Whose birthday?" he challenged, trying not to look at how Sherlock's trousers stretched across his thighs. _He's impossible_ , he told himself. _Don't get distracted by how fuckable he looks in the firelight, now he's ditched that stupid fur coat._

"Yours."

"No."

"Mine?"

"No!"

Sherlock's mouth took on a slant of distaste. "Are we 'lying low'?"

"Yes," John said. "I flew you halfway around the world to lie low."

"What, then?" Sherlock demanded, and John sighed.

"A holiday."

Sherlock's eyes adopted a glaze of confusion.

"That my sister won, but couldn't go on." Still nothing. "A holiday which, when I asked you if you fancied it, you said sounded 'good' ."

Sherlock scowled. "I could have been saying that about anything - I say it dozens of times a day! You must have got confused."

"Well, we're here now." John waved a glossy brochure at him. "So you can stay up there all night, or you can come down and help me decide what we're going to do."

Sherlock curled his lip at the brochure. "I can decide from up here. Read it to me."

"Skiing."

"Boring."

"Cable-car to a critically acclaimed restaurant at the top of—" John stabbed his thumb at the darkened window. "—that mountain."

The curled lip returned. "Can't we do better than _food_?"

"Hiking."

"Will there be bodies?"

"Only yours if I finally lose my rag."

"Then no. Fuck!"

"Something you really fancied in the alps, was there?"

"No. My phone's switched itself off. Pass me my charger."

John set his jaw. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's in England."

"WHAT?"

Sorry," John said. He shrugged. "Forgot to pack it."

"John, this is a catastrophe! The boredom - I'm going to go perfectly insane." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he jumped down from the chair. "Fine, if you want it that badly, we'll have sex."

"Er," John said, convinced that he couldn't have heard that right. "What?"

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "Ten days, no phone, no laptop, nothing to investigate, nothing to _do_ except those pitiful activities - you planned this! You think if I'm bored enough I'll have sex with you."

There was a pause. "You're mental," John said, just as Sherlock said, "And you'd be right."

John's eyebrows shot up. "That's—not what I had in mind, when I pictured this holiday." Not the whole truth, but give him a break.

Sherlock was advancing on him. "No, but now you're interested. Wondering."

"I'm not," John lied, feeling hot under his Northface jacket.

"What I like, what it will be like to have my full attention, if my stamina is as good as they say..."

"Who's they?"

"People."

"I'm not." He really, really was. He had a semi already.

"I can tell you want me," Sherlock purred. "Your pupils are dilated."

The semi drooped. "Pupils dilate for many reasons," John said, eyes narrowing.

"Such as arousal."

"Such as low light," John countered. Yep, definitely soft again. _Damn it, Sherlock, why do you have to **be** such an incredible arse, instead of just having one?_ "Or hundreds of drugs. Or autonomic neuropathy. Or, yes - activation of alpha-one receptors in the muscle fibres of the iris by the sympathetic nervous system, as a result of anything stimulating the _fight or flight_ response."

"Fight or flight or _fuck_."

John laughed. "Oh, jesus. If your best guess at arousal is pupil diameter, you're going to be wrong a lot."

Undeterred, Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "Your pulse is racing."

"Again!" John said. "Any adrenaline, for any reason. Anger, for instance!"

Sherlock dropped his wrist, glaring. "Look, are you interested or not?"

"Aha," John crowed. "Now we're getting somewhere: actually _asking_ what someone is _thinking_ \- incredible! And yes, as a matter of fact, I would have been, except that presumption based on flawed physiological reasoning is a real turn-off for me."

"...Oh."

"And whilst the prospect of shagging you because it's _less boring than skiing_ is of course delightful, it's still somewhat less appealing than going to bed with this brochure." He waved the brochure and stomped off into one of the bedrooms. It was chilly. His suitcase, with its super-secret stash of condoms and lube, mocked him. A moment later, he became aware of Sherlock hovering in the doorway. " _What?_ "

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. Then he said quickly, "Maybe tomorrow then."

John gave a short laugh. "Sure, why not," he said. "If you can get through an entire day without making me want to throw you down that damn mountain, we can try that again."

He expected Sherlock to snort, dismiss it with a wave of his hand, laugh it off. Instead his eyes brightened. "You're on."


End file.
